


I'll Protect You if You Protect Me

by ifdragonscouldtalk



Series: Tumblr Prompts/Drabbles [11]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Peter Parker, BAMF Tony Stark, Gen, Hurt Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 10:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11529912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifdragonscouldtalk/pseuds/ifdragonscouldtalk
Summary: "Peter has to save Tony from a super bad situation and Tony's both proud of Peter and upset with himself for needing it, like he let Peter down. Also Peter was really scared because Iron Man is supposed to be invincible and the realization that he's not hits him hard, which makes Tony feel worse." Originally written for tumblr.





	I'll Protect You if You Protect Me

They hadn’t been prepared for a fight.

Mr. Stark had started meeting with Peter once a month to discuss things with him; they got ice cream or walked around Central Park, or hung out in the compound. It was nice.

They had been out getting burgers together. Mr. Stark was smiling and interrupting Peter’s stories excitedly, and congratulating him on various crimes stopped, and that was nice.

And then Mr. Stark froze in the middle of a sentence, looking past him at something.

And then Mr. Stark was diving around the table and pushing Peter to the ground, covering him with his body, and there was an explosion and screaming and the crinkling of breaking glass. “Stark,” Peter heard someone growl, felt the man above him tense up. His ears were ringing with too much sound, and he wished he had the muffling qualities of his mask right now. Mr. Stark glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening, and then he had grabbed Peter’s shoulders and rolled, kicking a table in front of them as a flash of something bright and fast snapped against where they had just been. Peter didn’t have long to wonder how Mr. Stark had the strength to roll with him before he was being pulled to his feet and shoved back towards a building, where civilians were beckoning other civilians inside.

“Go, kid, go hide.”

“But Mr. Stark, I can help!”

“You don’t have the suit with you, Spidey. I’ve got this, leave this to the adults, now go.”

“You don’t have your suit either!” Peter flinched, barely able to react in time and pull Mr. Stark out of the way when the glowing whip came down again. Mr. Stark cursed wildly, before grabbing his shoulders tightly and looking him dead in the eye. Peter would’ve been lying if he said that didn’t scare him.

“Peter, that guy right there is a mercenary, a hired thug, and he  _does not_  like me. Whoever hired him wants something, whether it’s me or me dead, and he saw us sitting together, which means he knows you’re important to me in some way. He’s not going to care that you’re a kid, do you get that? You have to  _go_  Peter, I can’t do this with you here.”

“What, you’re just going to take him on barehanded?”

“Worked before.”

“No, Mr. Stark, you can’t-”

“ _Peter_ ,” Mr. Stark cut him off, his eyes shining, his voice full of desperation. “Please.”

They didn’t have time to say anything else.

The whip cracked down on Mr. Stark’s back – Peter watched it with a sort of fascinated horror, and he never believed those people who said time seemed to slow down in times of danger until now. The man, the mercenary, was speaking, laughing, but Peter couldn’t hear him, he was focused on Mr. Stark. He watched Mr. Stark’s face twist and his body convulse and his fingers twitch against his shoulders; and then he heard him scream, sharp and quickly cut off. An icicle of fear stabbed into Peter’s chest.

“Peter,” Mr. Stark growled, letting go of his shoulders and stumbling into a table for support. Peter could smell the blood dripping off his back. “Go.” But Peter could see the mercenary behind Mr. Stark, raising his whip to strike again. He shouted, diving forward and shoving Mr. Stark out of the way.

“We have to get out of here!” Mr. Stark was grimacing, clearly in pain.

“ _You_  have to get out of here. Dammit Peter!”

A painful buzzing erupted in the back of his neck, shooting down to his fingers and toes and filling his head with angry noise. He could feel himself twitching, his fingers convulsing, could smell blood, could hear Mr. Stark shouting and pleading.

“Stay awake kid, damn it Peter,  _please_!”

Peter’s eyes fluttered open to watch Mr. Stark get kicked a good two yards away, folding over on himself and gagging, gasping for air. The ocean was roaring in his ears, ringing trying to draw him under, and he realized he wasn’t breathing and took a deep breath in, feeling his head clear slightly. His eyes slipped closed, fluttered back open again when he was being lifted by his shirt. He let his head hang, seeing the boots of the mercenary near his own feet, hearing Mr. Stark’s voice but not any words.

It was jarring to be dropped again, his knees buckling, but Mr. Stark was there to catch him – when had he gotten so close? Rough hands were on his face, tilting it up so he could see Mr. Stark’s worried eyes, shining with something he didn’t have the capacity to read at that point. “I’ll get you out of this, Peter,” he heard Mr. Stark say from a long way away as he was lifted, and then he knew nothing.

* * *

He wasn’t exactly sure where he had woken up, but he knew it wasn’t his bedroom, or Ned’s: it smelled wrong. He took a deep breath, using his other senses to try and get a feel for his surroundings. There was one other person in the room with him, breathing softly.

“Hey Pete, you up?” Mr. Stark asked softly, Peter placing the voice instantly. “You took a pretty bad hit back there.” He must’ve been imagining Mr. Stark’s voice shaking. He blinked open his eyes slowly, pleased to find a respectable amount of light in the room… which probably meant Mr. Stark was having a bit of trouble seeing.

“Where are we?” he asked as he sat up gingerly, careful of any possible injuries that remained, but he felt fine.

“Doesn’t matter, we won’t be here long,” Mr. Stark answered, and Peter could see him studying him, eyes bright in the dim light of the room – cell, he realized. “It seems you healed while you were out. You should be glad, you had some nasty electrical burns.” Peter didn’t miss the dried tear tracks on Mr. Stark’s cheeks; couldn’t miss them, not with his senses. He didn’t exactly know what to make of it.

He also didn’t miss the way Mr. Stark was carrying himself: nursing a broken arm, tensed up to keep his back off the wall, licking a split lip. “Mr. Stark,” he breathed, worry and fear warring inside of him. Mr. Stark waved his hand.

“I’m fine, Spidey, don’t worry. I’m used to it. I’m more worried about May killing me when I finally get you home.” Peter couldn’t help but smile at that, and Mr. Stark relaxed a bit.

* * *

They came for Mr. Stark often. He came back a little more broken each time, leaving Peter to imagine what happened behind closed doors while he was trapped there, but never broke in will. He still refused to tell Peter where they were or who had taken them, but judging by their thick accents, Peter thought it was probably HYDRA.

Peter helped Mr. Stark patch himself up, and then waited with him for the next guard, next meal… he didn’t know how long it had been, but probably over a day.

He was scared.

Mr. Stark was brave, though.

He faced the soldiers head on, sharp tongue and quick wits earning sharper blows, but he always smiled. Vindictive. Dangerous. Peter didn’t know what he had planned – maybe nothing – but he insisted he would get Peter out. Always Peter. He never promised he would get himself out. That was scary too.

But it was fine, for the most part, even though Peter’s stomach always rumbled and Mr. Stark gave him most of his food. It was alright, for some hours, or maybe it was days.

Then they brought in the bucket full of water, and Mr. Stark began to  _break_. Peter could see it in the wide-eyed stare, in his panicked breathing and the opening and closing of his fists. And in the victorious smiles of their captors.

“Come on, Anthony,” #1 Head Creep said as his lackeys grabbed Mr. Stark’s arms and dragged him forward. Peter had seen him a few times, always standing slightly away from the action: the brains. The guy behind the desk. “Just tell us what we need to know.”

“ _No_ ,” Mr. Stark hissed, but whether it was because he was being dragged, kicking and fighting, closer to the bucket every second or whether it was an answer to the question was anyone’s guess. Peter wasn’t sure why Mr. Stark was so scared of the water, but it sparked an irrational fear in him as well. He didn’t want Mr. Stark near the water, near these men. #1 Head Creep sighed.

“Maybe we should just start asking the boy then. We have been refraining-” Mr. Stark cut him off with a snarl, lunging in his direction, shoved back onto his knees by the men holding him.

“ _Touch him and I’ll fucking kill you._ ” His voice was chilling, and Peter felt a shudder run through him. “ _I promise you, you’ll be dead by morning._ ”

“It seems our obedience lessons still aren’t working.” #1 Head Creep looked bored, glancing up at his associates. “Dunk him.”

Mr. Stark only had time to gasp “ _No!_ ” before his head was shoved under the water. Peter knew that Mr. Stark knew the most logical thing to do was to go limp, so they wouldn’t be able to tell whether they’d gone too far or not and would pull him up. But instead he was thrashing desperately, bucking and kicking with all he had, water sloshing onto the floor. His movements got more jerky, less restrained, before they finally pulled him back up by the hair. Water ran out of his mouth and nose as he vomited all over the floor and his knees, tears cutting through the dirty water on his face. “I fucking won’t do it!” he screamed anyway, and Peter flinched, covering his ears, not noticing his own tears. Mr. Stark was shaking violently, face pale, panic, fear, and defiance on his features.

Peter lost count of the times “dunk him” was called, of the times the bucket was refilled because the water had all spilled onto the floor, of the times Mr. Stark began to sob pathetically and beg them to stop, only for the cycle to start over again. Defiance, hysteria, desperation; defiance, hysteria, desperation. It must’ve been hours, it could’ve been days, everything blended together. Peter’s mind wasn’t working anymore. He was terrified for himself, for Mr. Stark.

It took him too long to remember the web-shooter he had shoved in his shoe to overhaul at school that he had been saving for an opportune moment, determined to get him and Mr. Stark out. Far, far too long.

Mr. Stark’s chest was heaving, his hair dripping rivulets down his body, his eyes glassy and feverish. #1 Head Creep was trying to coax information out of him again, speaking in a cloying voice, about how it would all be over if Mr. Stark just told them what they wanted, c’mon, he didn’t want them to hurt the kid, did he? Mr. Stark had gone silent some time ago, and was only shaking his head, over and over, he must’ve been dizzy by now. Peter fumbled with his web-shooter, hiding it behind his own trembling knees, using numb fingers to adjust the settings. He slipped it on his wrist, watching Mr. Stark’s shoulders shudder, seeing the blood that trickled from his bitten and split lip when #1 Head Creep slapped him.

He barely noticed himself standing, pointing the web-shooter, straightening his back. Barely noticed shooting it, netting the men in the room to the walls with more web-fluid than was necessary. Could only see Mr. Stark slump over, shivers wracking his form and tears dripping off his nose.

Was hit by the realization that Iron Man, Tony Stark, was not invincible, or even made of iron, was only a human, still got scared, still needed help.

Mr. Stark looked over at him with a small tilt of the head, his hair flopping over his eyes, still shivering, eyes still haunted. He looked guilty, but gave a small smile.

“Thanks, Peter,” he whispered in a cracked voice, and Peter had to swallow down a sob. “I’m proud of you, kid. Sorry… sorry I couldn’t save us myself.”


End file.
